The measure of a man
by vanhunks
Summary: Added final chapter. A Janeway and Paris story. Tom Paris has a history of screwing up. Long before he joined the USS Voyager, he was labeled a misfit, damaging relations with those closest to him. How far would he go to heal the many breaches created? A coda following the events of "Thirty Days".
1. Chapter 1

THE MEASURE OF A MAN

PG-13

Pairing: J & P.

SUMMARY: Tom Paris has a history of screwing up. Long before he joined the USS Voyager, he was labeled a misfit, damaging relations with those closest to him. How far would he go to heal the many breaches created?

A coda following the events of "Thirty Days".

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for the VAMV 2014 SECRET SUMMER. My recipient asked for a J & P friendship story, early Voyager, some pre- Delta Quadrant.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: To Mary, my super beta/editor for her work done on betareading this project

PREAMBLE

**Starfleet Academy – office of Captain Owen McKenzie Paris**

Eighteen year old Cadet Kathryn Janeway stood nervously twisting her fingers as she waited for the man behind the desk to speak. Captain Owen Paris was standing, studying the data of her new assignment that she'd worked nights to complete. Her heart was pumping. She could feel the heat in her cheeks and knew she must be blushing furiously. Of all the cadets, she had been the most fervent in conducting simulations required to complete her paper while all they wanted to do was make eyes at Will Riker, senior cadet.

No one ever disturbed Captain Paris, back at the Academy to teach Survival Strategies. Kathryn's assignment was to create a scenario quite similar to the Kobayashi Maru in a so-called no-win situation. She had been driven with her innovative idea, with streams of data to support it. So she kept her eyes on Owen, carefully observing the changes in his features, whether he remained shuttered, not giving away anything, or let slip a ghost of a smile of pleasure. Very rarely did he compliment any cadet. He had impossible standards. That was the first thing any first year cadet heard who wanted to take a class in Survival Strategies.

He had been the hardest of all her instructors to please. Everyone was scared of Owen Paris mainly because he could shrivel cadets with a just a look and reduce them to tears. But she was ambitious and single-minded. Ideas tumbled about in her head and all she wanted to do was get them out there and demand that someone - Owen Paris - take notice of them.

The captain shifted his weight. He was moving at least. When he made some indeterminate sound, her heart raced. Was he satisfied? Pleased? More than pleased? Dismissive? She knew her theories were well researched; there were no loopholes. After a few minutes in which the silence could have been shattered by the crack of a whip, Owen looked up, his gaze piercing, his lips compressed. Did she detect a flash of pride? Maybe surprise, more like.

_Please, let him approve it..._

Then, just as he was about to open his mouth, his door burst open. A young boy of about eight or nine darted inside. His hair was blond, his face alive. He had the bluest eyes Kathryn had ever seen in a young child. Not the restful, bright blue some children had, but stark, piercing, memorable. He hardly looked at her, his eyes eagerly on his father. Owen Paris frowned deeply at the intrusion, appearing decidedly annoyed with his son.

"Tom, what did – "

"Dad, I must show you something!"

"What did I tell you about not – "

But the boy seemed super animated, oblivious of his father's censure. In his hand he held a PADD. Kathryn frowned this time. It was not uncommon for young children to be doing all their assignments using that device, but the boy was extremely agitated about something he'd created. She stood and watched the little tableau, growing increasingly uneasy as she stared in turn at the boy and then the father. Owen stood rigid, ignoring Tom's imploring gaze, ignoring the PADD in the boy's hand.

"But, Dad! This is important! I've designed the basic specs for a Federation warship! A warship! It can break up into three separate ships to maximise firepower! Each section can have its own pilot! Here, look! It can be done!"

"Tom, son, those are the impractical imaginings of a young boy who should be at home studying. Go on home now. Your mother will be worried."

Kathryn noted how Owen Paris did not once look at the PADD. She had heard the son of Owen Paris was already a precocious flyer, that he'd be piloting starships soon, way before most cadets had that honour.

Tom's expression changed. His eyes darkened. He looked directly at Kathryn for the first time, a silent entreaty that she do something. She recognised that look. It was her look when she thought Owen Paris might accept her assignment as awesome, more the work of a senior cadet than one just starting out. She had done everything imaginable to gain her own father's respect, to gain his approval. Now she too wanted Owen Paris to approve her work, to commend her ideas.

Tom's face fell. His hand went limp, hanging by his side with the PADD in danger of slipping through his fingers.

He walked towards the door, turned and stared at her again before he stepped out, a disconsolate figure.

When the door closed, Owen Paris straightened up, smiled and asked, "Now, Cadet Janeway, where were we?"

Kathryn dragged her eyes away from the door to look at Owen Paris.

She knew she was going to remember for a very long time how stark, piercing blue eyes broke into pieces.

END PREAMBLE.

CHAPTER ONE

**Star date 52179.4** - **Delta Quadrant on board Voyager**

Chakotay followed Kathryn out of holodeck two as she walked briskly towards the turbolift.

"So, Captain," he began as they entered the lift, "this is the third time this month I've beaten you at Velocity."

"You want to announce this in a ship wide communication, Commander?"

"No, but you're not usually that distracted. Something bothering you?"

"No."

"Computer, halt turbolift."

"I'm not talking to you, Commander. Computer, belay that order."

"Computer, halt turbolift," Chakotay requested again.

Kathryn Janeway gave a long drawn out sigh. Chakotay stood hands on his hips, staring her down. She avoided his gaze.

"This is not Velocity, Captain. Most times you beat the hell out of me. Now your mind drifts when we're in the ready room discussing crew evaluations, or on the mess hall during breakfast or sitting on the bridge. What is troubling you?"

"He's ignoring me, you know?"

"Who?"

"You know."

"Paris? He was released from the brig six weeks ago. Is that why you look so preoccupied these days?"

She ignored his question. Instead, "He was never evasive before."

"Captain, you shut him away for a month in solitary confinement." Chakotay stressed the 'solitary'. "It takes time to adjust to normal activity. What did you expect?"

"I almost killed him. That's what he must be thinking."

"You think Tom Paris would have reason to hate you? You've both been raised in Starfleet. He knows the rules as well as you. Hell, I'd even accuse him of swallowing the damned rule book!"

"I thought we could be - "

"Friends again? Give him time, Captain. Tom Paris will be the first to tell you your decision was in accordance with Starfleet regulations. He disobeyed an order and he paid for it. End of story."

"I wish, Commander, it could be that easy."

Chakotay frowned heavily as he stared at Kathryn Janeway.

"Why do I get the feeling there's more to this than meets the eye? That the roots go deeper than anyone suspects?"

"Chakotay," Kathryn said softly, "perhaps you have a point there. But you are right. He's not engaging in small talk with me. There used to be such a great camaraderie. Now he speaks only when absolutely necessary, like - "

"Following orders?"

"You put it so beautifully," Kathryn replied a little sarcastically.

"I know you, Kathryn. You're like a little limpet that refuses to detach itself from the rocks. You're not going to give up on him, are you?"

"He's my personal reclamation project! You said so yourself!"

"You have to remind me of that, you little...limpet!"

Kathryn Janeway smiled for the first time. It warmed Chakotay to see the humorous lift of her mouth.

"You know me too well, Commander."

"Computer, resume turbolift."

It was the look in Tom's eyes that unsettled her, gave her sleepless nights, made her sit in her ready room pondering whether she had made the right decision. It had been the same look all those years ago in his father's office, when a parent dismissed his son's achievement, whether big or small, however insignificant. Tom's eyes had shattered then, and while he had appeared heroic in her ready room almost three months ago, she had seen the same look of disappointment, the way his eyes hurt.

That got to her. How was she different from his father? A man who hardly listened to his son then, who put him down because he was not sensational enough?

She hadn't wanted to tell Chakotay just how far back the hurt to Tom must have gone. It was nobody's business. Tom had not dealt well with his father's rejection, unable to understand later, after their capture by the Cardassians, that Owen Paris had simply retreated into his own hard shell. While many young adolescents were resilient and became well-adjusted, Tom had gone off the rails by the time he entered the Academy.

By then he had become a wayward cadet, intent on self-destruction, yet a genius pilot blessed with the gift of creativity. Long before Voyager left for Deep Space Nine, she had heard through the grapevine that Starfleet was building a revolutionary combat vessel, one fitted with multi-vector assault mode. The germ of an idea spawned by a very young Tom Paris, who had tried to show his father the early specifications for it. The USS Prometheus, the ship they sent their EMH to through alien sensor arrays.

She'd called Tom to her ready room, recalling the knowing look in his eyes when she told him about the Prometheus. He'd been cynical then when he'd said, "Dear old Dad managed to use my ideas after all..."

She kept seeing Tom's eyes.

In the beginning she had been fuming, then berated herself that she could have killed him. Sending him to the brig for thirty days in a way also prevented her from having to see him on the bridge, at the conn, in the mess hall, the holodeck with eyes that pleaded for something. Perhaps there was truth in the dictum that a genius or an individual blessed with a unique ability was often the loneliest of people. His father did not share his vision as a young boy. Had Tom been asking her to share his vision of a perfect Monean world? He had been so damned single-minded, so completely committed to his mission that he was right, passionate enough to disobey her.

But she was concerned. Now Tom was playing hide and seek. It had been six weeks since his release, yet he was avoiding all social contact. He kept to his quarters mostly, almost to the point of obsession. B'Elanna Torres had simply accepted that she was no longer a focal point in Tom's life. Harry Kim sought to divert himself in more prurient ways according to Chakotay, since Tom had side-lined his best friend as well. He didn't exactly alienate himself from them, just lost interest, it seemed; he was simply not there and according to Chakotay, seemed preoccupied.

It was time, she decided, that this nonsense came to an end.

She missed him, she had to admit. She missed his cockiness, his energy, his unfailing loyalty to her, especially. Their families had been in Starfleet for so long, at times their lives intersected. That was the one common bond they had. On Voyager it might not always have been viewed with cordiality. Despite his time in the Maquis, despite his time in jail, despite being cashiered out of Starfleet, the crew sensed an unconscious bearing about Tom that told them: Starfleet born and bred, from a long line of admirals.

Tom had made mistakes in his life and paid dearly for them. The last was to lose the respect of the one man who perhaps, now that they were lost in a mostly hostile quadrant, had time to reflect on his treatment of his son.

She believed Owen Paris had been just as unhappy and filled with remorse about losing a son long, long before he actually lost Tom. Tom always spoke in bitter terms about Owen Paris. Even though his treatment of his father was so shabby, she had no reason to believe that Owen Paris wouldn't have been as devastated as the loved ones of all her crew who had believed them dead.

She gave a sigh, She was ready for bed, although it was already past 1200 hours. Sleep was in short supply tonight. If she couldn't get Tom's eyes and his proud bearing that day in her ready room out of her mind, it was time to read to forget them.

And so, the one book she grabbed from her little shelf in her bedroom was the last book Tom had read before his fascination with the ocean of the Monean Homeworld: _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under The Sea. _

The old man's eyes bore into him. The tall ship's rigging trembled, but he knew it was his hands that shook. The ship was beautiful, her lines sleek, a replica of a nineteenth century schooner.

"But, Dad, I built it myself. It took me three months!"

"You will get rid of that thing. You are meant for greater things than sailing around in naval yards." The old man's voice brooked no opposition. "Go and complete your paper on warp core engineering!"

"But I - I used all my credits for this. I want to sail the seven seas! I love it!"

He loved the oceans. He wanted to live on them. He wanted to live beneath them. The boy looked defiantly at the old man.

The old man's face hardened even more. The boy could swear there was smoke coming out his ears. Yes, that was it, he decided. The old man was fuming. But he shrank back even though he tried to be brave. He was afraid, afraid that the old man could stare him to death. Then he'd rather run away from the death stare so the old man couldn't catch him.

The boy started running as fast as he could to get away from death. He held the tall ship tightly in his hands as he ran. His chest burned. Just then the sails unfurled and began to swell in the breeze, lifting him from the ground, up, up, high up into the sky. He looked down and saw his father running after him. The faster he ran, the more the sails billowed, but the old man also began to run faster, chasing the boy as fast as he could. Would the old man never get tired?

Suddenly the tall ship with its splendid sails dipped and the boy found himself on the open ocean of the Southern Seas and he was standing on the deck of the vessel. He called the vessel the _Enterprise. _Then the old man got tired and stopped running. He was standing on the shore of an island.

"You can't catch me, you can't catch me!" he shouted to the old man.

The old man cried out, "Stop the ship! Stop now or I will shoot you!"

The boy turned to look and saw his father pointing a phaser rifle at him. His eyes widened in alarm, thinking that his father was really going to shoot.

Then he saw a flash as his father fired the rifle, the blast lighting up the dark sky like fireworks.

"Nooooo!"

Tom sat bolt upright in bed, cricking his neck as he did so. He groaned, looking groggily around him, realising he was no longer on an open ocean sailing a schooner called the _Enterprise_. He rubbed his neck. A deep thickness settled in his head, the start of yet another headache. He'd been having a lot of those lately, ever since they had been under attack while he had been in the brig.

He'd also been having a lot of nightmares lately...

He got up and made his way to his bathroom. Opening his med-kit, he retrieved a hypospray and filled it with a sedative. A minute later he felt better.

"No sleep for me tonight," he muttered as he realised it was only 0100.

He needed to keep busy. Always busy, especially when he was off duty, so he could forget a pair of accusing blue-grey eyes that stalked him day after day and most nights, especially the thirty days he'd spent in the brig.

"Forget her, Paris. She'll be the death of you."

He tried to remember the nightmare. The same one he had in the brig, only this time the old man was about to phaser him into oblivion. Maybe he should have dreamt on, just so he could be phasered and remain in the realm of oblivion. Then he didn't have to dream again of the old man and his accusing eyes, or of her with her accusing eyes, or of their anger which always, always, always lay so close to the surface.

Sighing, he walked to his closet where he'd installed a large drawer and side-cupboard when he boarded Voyager at Deep Space Nine. No one needed to know of his secret hobby, not even B'Elanna. B'Elanna was as good as dead to him anyway. Since his release from the brig he'd ignored her, kept away from his friends and generally distanced himself from them. Though, to their credit, they refused to take his 'no' for an answer and remained friends. He still felt so damned _negative_! He didn't want to be seen around them wearing only one rank pip. Janeway had the other one, what could he say? Ensign expendable. What a crock.

He took the cloth covered object from the cupboard and walked to his tiny alcove, placing it on the counter. He removed the cloth and stared at his ship for so long that he forgot for a moment his resentment, his shame, the embarrassment of being an ensign again. How had he managed to keep this a secret for so long? His father! That's it! Dear old Dad was the reason. Made him think he was never good enough!

"Sweet baby, you're almost complete..." he murmured as he caressed the ship from bowsprit to the aft section, all along its oak hull.

Although he'd been building and dismantling tall ships from around age seven, this particular project began life as an idea in his senior high school year and started at the Academy. It had gained momentum years ago at Caldik Prime, throughout his period in the Maquis and in the New Zealand Penal Colony. There he'd been allowed to pursue his hobby as part of his rehabilitation.

From his tool box Tom retrieved four black objects, no longer than three centimeters, each resting on a gun carriage marginally bigger.

"Time to glue you babies into place... In real life you would have been 12-pounder naval guns..."

The four guns - black on yellow gun carriages were perched on the upper gun deck. Deft fingers gingerly controlled the tiny cannon and their supports, carefully inserting them into their slots. When all were glued into place, Tom sat back and gave a satisfied smile.

"That's cannon 101, 102, 103 and 104. Now to complete the sails. But first..."

Tom moved so that he could look at the bowsprit again. He had chosen Lady Emma Hamilton to grace the bowsprit. The eyes were blue-grey. For a moment there flashed a pair of angry blue-grey eyes. Tom closed his eyes to dispel the image of the face. No, keep away from me, Janeway!

"Damn Janeway," he murmured and pulled his gaze away from the bowsprit.

Over the years, and especially on Voyager, he'd saved every available credit and ration to replicate the parts, but the sails were going to be hand-made from a cotton-like fabric he'd purchased at a bazaar on the Gorkoran Homeworld a year ago. B'Elanna had given him a strange look. "It's for my mother, when we get home...one day," he'd answered her lamely. She never asked about it again. He stored the cloth in his tool box. Now he was ready to cut and sew the sails.

_"Your father used to say you never finished anything."_

Tom frowned. Those were Harry's words to him in the brig. The things he used to tell Harry! Dear old Dad's favourite line when it came to his son. "Go to hell, Harry..." he muttered.

"I wrote you a letter, Dad. Maybe you won't think so badly of me when you read it, which you probably never will. We're stuck here forever. But little Tommy will feel better for having finished his ship. There, Harry Kim, you can take that and swallow it."

Now his tall ship was nearing completion. The rigging was complete - every single rope, line and naval knot. He still felt wide awake. Janeway's fault.

"Go to hell, Janeway, you ruin my nights," he mumbled as he took the sail cloth from the box and started cutting the first of the ship's thirty seven sails. If he worked nights, it would take him two weeks to sew and attach them all. Then his ship would be complete and he'd be able to say, "There, I finished something I started, old man. Take that and swallow it."

So he started cutting the sails from the polytarp cotton. Come morning, he'd be finished. Tomorrow he could start sewing the sails - fine, fine stitches just like he'd taught himself when he was nine or ten and Dad never knew.

The sound came from the deepest recesses of his brain. It started as a light tingle from his dream - this time he was out-sailing the old man in the Southern Oceans, playing a game called "Catch me if you can."

Now it was more persistent, the tingle became a persistent beep that sounded like...

Commbadge!

Tom sat bolt upright, bleary eyed.

"Damn!"

He rubbed his eyes. He'd fallen asleep, the cutters still in one hand, a sail in the other, his forehead dented where it had come to rest on a piece of flotsam on the counter. He ran to the room and picked up his commbadge. It beeped again.

"Janeway to Paris."

"Paris here."

"Be in holodeck two at 0700. Commander Chakotay has freed you this morning."

It was morning?

"Aye, Captain."

He was certain he slurred his words. He was certain she thought he'd been drinking. He was still groggy from sleep which had finally overtaken him at who knows what time? He looked at his chronometer. It was 0600! He swore under his breath as he swiftly proceeded to pack away his tall ship and tools, pulled the sheets on his bed into some semblance of order and hurried into the bathroom.

What did Janeway want with him and in the holodeck of all places? Why not her ready room, where she could strip him of the only rank pip still on his collar these days? Why not?

Eyes, Paris. Remember the eyes and keep angry. Keep angry and feed your resentment. What resentment? Long ago in her ready room, he had accepted her decision, accepted that he had been wrong to disobey orders.

"One can be right and disobey orders," he murmured as he showered. "No, to disobey is wrong. Or, wait, why not disobey because you're entirely convinced you're doing the right thing?"

_Goddammit! I believed in my cause this time. Even though I searched for one before but didn't believe in it. This was different. I have an unholy attraction to water, didn't you know, Father? Didn't you know, Captain Janeway?_

By the time he was dressed, a single pip adorning his collar, a hundred thousand scenarios had played out in his mind. Why did she want to see him? What did she want? She'd already dressed him down good and solid. She'd taken his rank from him. She'd made him an ensign. How much lower could he go? He was a poster boy for lost causes. Once upon a time she had bartered for his freedom. He had accepted her terms with bravado. Why? He was the best pilot she could have, was what he told her. Still, what she had done for him established good relations between them. It had been a good four and something years.

Now, he pondered over the terse instruction that he be in holodeck two at 0700. It was certainly not to engage in games with him. He had managed, in the last six weeks, to avoid having to socialise. He had remained strictly professional, perhaps even more conscientiously than ever before. He wanted to eradicate the old idea that they had something other crew didn't have - Starfleet history, with parents who were friends.

Should he tell her some crew -

"No, I'm no goddamned tattle-tale! No way I'm going to snitch and look like an itch...bitch."

He laughed at his own crude alliteration as he exited his quarters and proceeded towards the turbolift.

END CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Tom Paris had sounded as if he were asleep yet she sensed that he hadn't been in bed when she hailed him. He had responded in rushed tones, his voice the just-awoke-from-sleep croaky tone. She'd wondered what he had been up to. During the last few weeks she'd noticed dark circles under his eyes. Yet he'd responded to her command in a clipped, professional way, the old cordial tone gone. That was what she'd missed most about Tom, even though she knew in her heart of hearts that her decision to demote him had been the right one. How could she blame him for not continuing on the same footing with her as before?

Chakotay would probably tell her that too much had happened between them to resume their friendship, his easy going manner, his irrepressible nature.

Now Kathryn watched the holodeck entrance closely as the hour approached.

Right on 0700 the doors slid open and Tom Paris stepped inside, looking resplendent in uniform with no sign he might have been up all night. He looked straight at her.

She held two holographic phasers while a disk – twenty centimeters across – hovered a metre from the floor. I think that works better. The holodeck was bare, just the hologrid with its omnidirectional holographic diodes, the metallic floor, Janeway and Paris.

"So," Tom began as he stepped up to her and stopped a short distance in front of her, "you're going to play games with me after all."

Tom's snide remark grated on her instantly. She was tempted to halt and walk out. Instead, she threw a phaser at him. He caught it deftly.

"It's set on medium strength. I'm blue. Best of ten rounds."

Tom was already standing legs apart, perfectly balanced with the phaser held in his hand. Janeway noted he didn't grasp it tightly, a sure sign that an opponent was struggling. It was lightly held. Once before in a game they'd played and which he'd won, he'd remarked "It's all in the wrist."

"Then you won't mind losing again..._Captain_."

The way he paused just before saying "Captain" grated again. He was baiting her, enforcing his new status as an ensign. The voice of the computer started up.

"Round one in FOUR-THREE-TWO-ONE."

Kathryn started first as the disk, red, aimed for her mid-section. She fired, blasting the disk so that it ricocheted against the bulkheads, heading for her opponent. Tom managed to dive and roll expertly out of the way, at the same time pointing and firing. Disk turned red again, bouncing off the bulkhead before it very nearly hit against her head.

They ducked and doodged for a few minutes. It was game on. Tom was good. Very good. So was she.

"You want to know why I called you here?" she asked, deftly diving away from the offending disk.

"Certainly not to engage in a game, though that was on my mind..._Captain_."

The disk aimed for her face. She fired, sending it careening towards Tom. It slammed into his chest and he went flying across the floor. As long as he angered her, she'd have the upper hand. He was up in an instant.

The voice of the computer: "FULL IMPACT. ROUND ONE TO CAPTAIN JANEWAY."

"Nine more rounds, _Captain_. We could do this all day."

"Why are you avoiding me?" she asked as the game continued into round two.

"Why do you care?"

"Because you are a member of my crew - "

"Whom you slapped on the wrist like a disobedient child."

"Like it or not, you're still a member of my crew and you still pilot my ship."

"_Your_ ship. Yeah. Right."

She paused momentarily. A mistake. The disk, red, struck her in the stomach. The air whooshed out of her. She winced as she fell to the floor, only to hear the computer's voice.

"FULL IMPACT. ROUND TWO TO ENSIGN PARIS."

"Yes, _Ensign_ Paris. You got that right." Tom sent the red disk flying in her direction.

"You don't talk to anyone. You don't talk to me. Why do you play hide and seek, Tom? Is it because I demoted you?"

The disk whisked past her as she ducked and bounced off the bulkhead behind her. She turned, allowing it to move in before she fired at it. She sent it whizzing away, hitting all the bulkheads in a crazy cyclone-like trajectory towards Tom.

"It's my life, Captain. I can do pretty much what I want."

"Including self-destruct? You're a member of this crew, part of the social structure of the ship."

"Oh, yes? _Was_, Captain, _was_. I'm a senior officer no longer. My friends outrank me. Well, except for poor old Harry. His rank is never going to change, is it?"

"We're talking about you, Tom. You're a natural at everything you do. Your creative energies were always noticeable before. Now you lurk in your quarters like someone afraid to come into the light."

"Know what, Captain? I like the darkness, get it? I like it. I can dwell there and not have to see..."

Tom paused at the last words, firing at the disk. It turned red, hovering off in her direction. She readied herself to counter-attack. Why did he pause? He didn't appear to be breaking a sweat, while she was already exhausted by the fast pace of the game.

"What is it you don't want to see?"

When she paused to ask that question, looking directly into his eyes, the disk hit the side of her face. The force of it sent her flying to the floor. She was up instantly, only to hear the computer's voice.

"FULL IMPACT. ROUND THREE TO ENSIGN PARIS."

"What don't you want to see?" she asked again as the game continued.

"Your eyes, if you must know. They follow me."

"You know I've done the correct thing, Tom. Why can't you _see_ past that?"

"Oh, don't I know it. In your ready room, your eyes told me that. Same like - "

"What?" she asked, deftly sending the disk his way. She was tiring, but she wasn't going to let him know that. He'd pounce on her weakness straightaway.

"My father. You're the same. Janeway and Admiral Paris. Never good enough for the old man. He didn't seem to have any trouble with Cadet Janeway."

"I saw you that day in his office. He was Captain Paris then. You were about eight or nine years old."

"That was you?"

"Yes. Why is that a surprise?"

"You didn't take my side, that's what!"

"FULL IMPACT. ROUND FOUR TO CAPTAIN JANEWAY."

"I wanted to, but I was just as - "

"Don't say it! You were his favourite daughter of the Federation! His own son didn't matter."

"Is that why you're hiding? From me? So that my eyes don't scare you?"

"They never scared me. They remind me of him in attack mode. "

Kathryn took a deep breath and returned to the original topic.

"I really would like to see you socialise like before, Tom. It's so unlike you. You never speak to me anymore, unless it is to - "

"I say 'Yes, ma'am', I say 'No, ma'am'. That's the way it's going to be."

"It pains me, if you must know."

"You? Hurting? Don't make me laugh, Captain. You shut me away for a month, without a single person with whom I could _socialise_, as you so grandly put it. You could have killed me!"

Janeway blanched at those words.

"I made the right decision, Tom. Take it or leave it."

"FULL IMPACT. ROUND FIVE TO ENSIGN PARIS."

"Oh, I have taken it..._Captain_. I was born and raised Starfleet, remember? Take responsibility for my actions and rejoice in the consequences. I got to thinking about a lot of things in the brig. Like why put my imaginings out there? They're irrelevant! I dream and you haunt me. I want to get your eyes out of my head, dammit!"

"FULL IMPACT. ROUND SIX TO ENSIGN PARIS."

"So that I don't have to think about _him_! You're the same!"

"FULL IMPACT. ROUND SEVEN TO CAPTAIN JANEWAY."

Then Tom got up and walked towards her. The disc hit him in the face. He ignored what must have been painful.

"FULL IMPACT. ROUND EIGHT TO CAPTAIN JANEWAY."

He threw down his phaser. Janeway paused the game.

He stood so close that the blue of his eyes was heightened by the bluish tinge of the holodeck grid. She drew in her breath sharply. They were the eyes that had haunted her for years, filled suddenly with a different light in them. He stood so close she could place her palm against his chest. Like lovers in a woodland tryst. Yet Tom's anger seemed to bounce off him, touching her.

This was not going well, she thought. His anger was palpable, but Kathryn stood her ground.

"I never forgot your eyes, Tom, that day in your father's office. You looked so young, so full of childish dreams, yearning for your father to acknowledge what you'd done. I kept wondering how a man could ignore and undermine his son's achievements and I kept wondering why I didn't do anything. I kept thinking how what I was doing was not that much different from your father. If you must know, sentencing you to the brig and demoting you, almost killing you... has not given me a single moment of peace, of good sleep without dreams."

She was tired of fighting.

"Look at me, Captain. Let me tell you something. I was mesmerised by the Monean ocean world. It became a cause I believed in passionately. No one was going to convince me otherwise. I wanted to be their savior and protector. My lifelong obsession was a body of water with sailing ships on it. I wanted to sail the seven seas. I was Bligh. I was Nemo. I was Ahab! I was every sea captain that sailed the oceans of Earth. But you were right, I was wrong. I am just taking longer, I guess, to acclimatise myself to my new status. If it's any consolation, I am not idle in my quarters."

"I gathered as much."

She tried to smile, but her face felt stiff.

There was a pause. The anger seeped out of his face, receding until it died. They stared at each other, a gaze that seemed to contain something strangely desirable, something very, very dangerous. Danger was a face that closed in on hers, so that they were a mere breath apart. If he moved his mouth, he'd be touching hers. The hair on her neck bristled. Sometime during the next few hours she'd have to ponder on why her skin reacted to Tom's nearness.

"Computer, end game," she ordered softly. What did it matter who was winning?

"When we play again, Captain," Tom promised, "I hope the circumstances will be more pleasurable."

Without another word, he turned and exited the holodeck, leaving her gaping. She stood there some time before she allowed herself to smile again, shaking her head as she too, made her way to the holodeck doors.

Something had happened to which she dared not give substance, any substance at all.

Tom paced restlessly in his lounge. Those last few moments in the holodeck, standing so close to Kathryn Janeway, almost touching her. What the hell was happening? Did the rules of the game suddenly change? Why was he in such a hurry to finish his 100-gunner?

Damn!

He had to be on duty at 1030, Velocity with Captain Janeway had drained him. He realised she had chosen the holodeck for a very good reason. That scene at the end and their heated conversation would not have looked good in her ready room, the mess hall or the board room.

Clever, clever captain.

He was hungry, realising he hadn't eaten anything substantial the previous night. He'd only munched on a replicated apple before he hurried to his quarters to work on his ship. He needed more rations. One or two minor details he'd forgotten. Now it was mess hall for breakfast, then Ayala, Hamilton, Gerron, Chell and a few other crewmembers for pool to win some rations off them again.

As soon as he entered the mess hall Neelix hailed him.

"Ensign Paris," he gushed, "I made your favourite breakfast! Just the way you like your quail eggs!"

Tom frowned. He'd never eaten quail eggs. He felt his stomach churning just looking at the most unpalatable mush on his plate.

"And did you lay them yourself, Neelix?"

"Well, er...no, but these I got from Nerdom IV. Their quail look remarkably like those on your homeworld."

"I'll have the breakfast. Lose the quail. I'm going to be sick just looking at them."

"Fine. I'll eat them myself." Neelix proceeded to scoop the fried quail eggs from Tom's plate and ate them directly from the spatula. "Too much pepper..."

Tom took his tray and aimed for the farthest, darkest table in the mess hall. He ignored the stares of the crewmen. Then he spotted Dalby standing near the replicator.

"I swear one day soon I'm going to beat the shit out of him," Tom muttered under his breath as he sat down.

Several crewmen had surprised him one night on his way back from the cargo bay. Ensign's duty to reposition containers and secure them against the bulkheads. He'd fought like a madman, but three against one in the dead of night when no one could hear him scream was futile. He'd limped to his quarters and treated himself with the med-kit he'd put together in his first year on Voyager. He'd recognised Dalby, but not the other two.

He was an ensign now so they took their chances with him. Payback for the times he'd used his rank to put one over them. And how many times had he done that? Even when meant in good spirits? They hadn't forgotten. _Ensign_ Paris wouldn't go running to Janeway. _Lieutenant_ Paris didn't have to.

That was the first of three attacks. Only a week ago they got him again. He wondered how it always happened when there was no one else about. He'd been forced to go to sick bay, but only after his duty shift at the conn ended. He'd been in great pain, was certain a rib or two was cracked. By some fluke they didn't bash his face in. He'd read somewhere how abusive partners made sure their victims showed no outward signs of injury. They made sure his face remained clean. The doctor had been critical of his lack of personal responsibility to take care of his health.

"Ensign Paris, you know I have to report this."

"You do that, Doc, and - "

"What, you'll deactivate me like everybody else wants to do?"

"No. I'll get Torres to change your emotion subroutines and make you cry every time a sick crewman walks in here."

The doctor had fixed his broken ribs, then warned he might not be around next time Ensign Paris walked into sick bay near to death.

Now Dalby and Co. were after his blood.

Something's gotta give. Whatever it was, he wouldn't go running to the captain to complain.

"Are you going to finish that, Paris?" he heard B'Elanna's voice. "You're deep in thought. Care to share?"

She plonked down and stared pointedly at him. After everything that had happened - his obsession with the Monean water world, his drive, the Delta Flyer, disobeying the captain's direct orders, the shame of demotion, solitary confinement - he'd lost B'Elanna. Strangely enough, she hadn't been unduly distressed by losing him as a partner. He thought people evolved through relationships, that there came a point where they simply discovered there was too little to hold it together. A natural movement away from each other. Friendship remained. That was way more important to him.

"You're still my friend, B'Elanna. You don't know how much that means to me."

B'Elanna leaned forward and smiled grimly.

"They're after your blood."

"Who?"

"You don't think the ship knows you're being bullied, because Janeway made you an ensign?"

"You're in my face, but that's okay. The whole ship?"

"Ah, so you admit Dalby and his cohorts are beating the snot out of you."

"I've been through worse."

"Yes. I get that. But you're not telling. You think that makes you a hero?"

"Too late for that. I'm no hero."

"You stood for what you believed in and took the fall. Why do you think you got beaten up? It's not the beatings, you know. Just a thinly veiled jealousy that you had the courage to do what you did and take the rap like a man. A real man. I love you for that. Hell, no, not _that_ kind of love. Just simple admiration for facing Captain Janeway with all that Paris sense of doing what's right and honourable. You would have made a good Klingon."

Tom burst out laughing.

"That's the first time you've laughed since leaving the brig."

"Know what? I'm suddenly feeling better."

"What were you doing in the holodeck early this morning?"

"You know?"

"Duh."

"To talk things over, if you must know."

"Nothing's resolved, Tom. I can see that. I can also see why, but I'm not telling. You discover that for yourself. Now listen, I'm not going to prise more information from you. You're just going to go all Janeway poker-faced on me. Just tell me, should I beat the snot out of Dalby for you?"

"Hell, no! But thanks for the offer. I'm planning on doing it myself sometime soon."

"Let soon be sooner rather than later, okay?"

"Thanks."

When B'Elanna left for Engineering, Tom sat a few moments pondering their conversation and feeling much better. He ignored the Dalby crew, finished his breakfast and then headed for the bridge.

On his way to the turbolift he was accosted by Samantha Wildman.

"Mr Paris!"

"Sam! What can I do for you?"

"Do you know it will be Captain Janeway's birthday in two weeks' time?"

Tom shook his head. If he knew, he'd forgotten. Sam looked expectantly at him.

"Why is that important?"

"Well, a few of us have been thinking about throwing her a surprise birthday party. We'd like all available crew to be there...in - in the holodeck," she stammered.

Sam's voice trailed away. What were they expecting from him? She looked like she knew he was not the captain's favourite officer right now.

"I'll think about it," he replied stiffly, not wishing to be mean to one of the kindest crewmembers aboard Voyager, yet the germ of an idea was already beginning to develop inside his head.

When he exited the turbolift to enter the bridge, he walked straight to the conn, merely nodding to the captain and first officer. The pilot on duty shifted quickly to the secondary panel to Tom's left. He knew the captain's eyes were on him. Hell, if he touched his back, he might feel the pain of burn marks. He didn't care. She'd lured him to the holodeck to have a chat with him. Did it work? He closed his eyes for a brief moment, thinking about that afternoon in her ready room when she touched his shoulder. A burn exactly like he was experiencing now. The touch a searing reminder that he'd screwed up once again.

What he sensed from their game was that the events of the past two month and a half months had left their mark on her too. Maybe he should cut her some slack. That look she gave him before he left... Better not think about it. He needed friends, mentors, commanding officers, associates, colleagues, nothing closer. He had that with B'Elanna. Their friendship was the best thing that had emerged from the debris of past events.

He breathed in deeply as his hands caressed the paneled array. The conn always felt like his oldest friend, the one thing that could calm the savage emotions he sometimes had difficulty keeping under control.

"Missed you," he murmured softly.

END CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

He'd come off Alpha Shift to the shuttle bay as soon as he could. It was valuable free time he used to tend to his other baby. He always considered the Delta Flyer to be his. In concept and design it _was_ his, a situation many crewmembers had come to accept. Since his release from the brig, he'd sit in it just so he could assuage the old anger he'd felt when Captain Janeway had almost blown him out of the Monean ocean.

Gradually the anger turned to pain, then to melancholy that he couldn't help the Moneans after all, to acceptance that there existed rules regarding interference in the lives of alien worlds.

He thrust the morbid thoughts away from him, then slowly wiped the conn panel of the Delta Flyer. He used a chamois, an old Earth twentieth century cloth used to polish motorised vehicles. It felt good, the simple action of rub-on-rub-off a soothing motion. The conn wasn't dirty or dusty, but he liked rubbing it.

It had been a week since he'd played Velocity with Captain Janeway. He could have beaten her easily. His hand-eye co-ordination was sharper than hers. He'd been flying shuttles, flitters and roundabouts since he was eight, long enough to have perfected his reflexes over the years. Hell, he'd flown Voyager through narrow slits in creepy looking nebulas. He knew every battle maneuver and could execute new ones. Yet he kept returning to that game in the holodeck. He had to admit it had been exhilarating, pitting his expertise against hers, particularly when the underlying motive was only to question him about his attitude to her.

Sighing, he wondered when friendship would ever be restored between them. He was no fool. He readily conceded the fact that nothing would be quite the same as it had been before. That was life. Trust, when broken, was difficult to heal without ever revealing the crack that broke it in the first place. If they were stuck in this quadrant another thirty five years, his most important mission would be to regain the captain's trust.

It was quiet this time of the evening in the shuttle bay, just the way he liked it. So far he hadn't been accosted by Dalby and his gang, and wondered if B'Elanna had gotten to them. He hated anyone fighting his battles. They weren't going to stop. Tom thumped the area around the toggle switches extra hard, almost breaking one.

"Damn!"

A few minutes later he felt better. He'd wiped away most of his ire. It was time to head to his cabin, where his tall ship was waiting to have her sails fixed, the final touches made, the little figurines of able seamen, midshipmen, officers, master and commander put in their proper places on the deck of the ship.

He'd just climbed out of the Flyer when he heard a noise. Instantly on the alert, he paused momentarily. It could be Naomi Wildman. But why would she be lurking around the shuttle bay unless she wanted him to tutor her in piloting the Flyer? This time of night? Nah. It wasn't Naomi. Another soft sound. His neck hair pricked. Trouble!

Then he saw them as they rounded the Flyer. Three of them, familiar faces.

"You!"

Kathryn Janeway thought about Chakotay's words. He'd gently rebuked her for taking Tom's attitude too much to heart. He needed time to sort himself out, Chakotay said. In that, Tom Paris was as human as the next person. They might be in the twenty fourth century on an intrepid class starship, with behaviour, actions and reactions in any given situation in accordance with Starfleet: Never show you are distressed. Never conduct yourself in a manner unbecoming officers of the Federation. Be hard. Remain on your guard.

Yet she couldn't shake off Tom's hard, flinty look in the holodeck, or the promise of better circumstances when they played Velocity again.

That was what kept her going. A tacit assurance that there would be more pleasurable games between them. It gave her hope that they'd return to their previous good footing. She'd missed his musings on flying, ships, books, twentieth century events. She couldn't deny - had in fact, stopped denying - that Chakotay had a point about reclamation projects, that Tom was her favourite, so to speak. She had no doubt that the crew saw him as a sort of favorite too. That could easily have evoked animosity with the rest of the crew. She had never made her partiality obvious, was indeed at pains not to show her liking for Tom Paris, dashing pilot of Voyager. Once he'd practically co-erced her into watching _The Prisoner of Zenda_ in the holodeck. He reminded her so much of the swashbuckling Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

The irony was that Tom didn't have to do more than what was expected of any other officer on board Voyager. He was as hardworking, as committed, as disciplined. Except when struck by an uncommon amount of ambition that would make him disobey her orders.

But she had a soft spot for him, born on that fateful day he'd rushed as an eight year old into his father's office seeking Owen Paris's approval. She'd been too afraid then to speak up for the little boy. What was she herself but a quivering first year cadet hoping for the very thing Tom Paris could claim as the son of a Starfleet captain and which she could only wish for?

It was already late into the evening, but she'd decided to walk the corridors of the ship to stretch her legs, greet crewmembers she passed, stop by the mess hall where Neelix was feeding the Gamma shift crew before they too, returned to their quarters. She hadn't done this in a while, at least not so late at night, but thinking about Chakotay's uplifting words, the fact that at least some of the air had been cleared between her and Tom, had revived her enthusiasm for walking.

So she made her way to the shuttle bays. She'd take a last look at the Delta Flyer, Tom's baby from the beginning it seemed to her. It was one thing she didn't deny him, although she could have revoked his privileges with regard to the shuttle. That would have been foolish for a commanding officer of a ship. Their situation in an unknown and hostile quadrant made using all of her crew and officers critical. It had been a very hard decision to send him to the brig for thirty days. That one time they'd been under attack she was dead certain Tom would have navigated Voyager far more skillfully than the pilot on duty. They might not have had so many casualties...

It was quiet in the shuttle bay. Not that she expected anyone there except Tom who had a habit of polishing his Flyer. She walked towards the shuttle. That was when she noticed the hatch still open.

Tom Paris was lying on the floor, unresponsive. In the dim light she could see blood oozing from his nose.

"Tom!"

She rushed forward, hitting her commbadge at the same time.

"Janeway to Doctor. Beam Ensign Paris directly to sickbay."

When Tom dematerialised, she stood a few moments, still shocked. Then she made her way to sickbay. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Tom was still lying on the biobed when she entered the sickbay.

"Doctor, report!"

"Ensign Paris has been attacked again."

"Again?"

"Naturally, he wouldn't tell a soul, though I'm certain the crew have an idea who is behind these beatings."

She looked at Tom's pale face. He looked calm now, relaxed, asleep. Who could have done this? More importantly, why?

"A few broken ribs, broken nose, some concussion. Captain, this has got to stop."

"If we can determine why, that would accelerate our investigation. I'll inform Tuvok."

"You mean you don't know?"

"What am I supposed to know?"

"Ensign Paris didn't have to tell me anything. He was not above playing pranks on certain crewmembers. But then he was a lieutenant and senior officer. Whoever did this is paying him back for past sins."

Kathryn sighed. Once again she was reminded that her decision to demote him could have these violent consequences.

Tom had woken up. She placed her palm against his shoulder in a comforting gesture, but he turned his face away. He looked embarrassed and angry at the same time. She suspected he knew his attackers.

"Who did this, Tom?"

"Will it help if I said I stumbled and fell down the hatch?" he asked.

"No. But a few crewmembers could have helped you down. That right?"

Tom had the grace to blush. He knew that she sensed foul play, but he wasn't telling.

"Doctor, keep him here for an hour to recover, then discharge Ensign Paris."

"If I don't he'll just discharge himself."

"Strap him down if you have to, Doctor."

"I'm right here, Captain."

"Fine, then you're off duty tomorrow. "

Tom stared at her. She stifled a gasp, then turned and rushed from the sick bay without another word.

He couldn't sleep. Was never going to sleep. His mind was alert. Since his return from sickbay he'd been like a cat on a hot tin roof. He paced the floor of his lounge, sat down a minute then got up again, pacing. What the hell was the matter with him?

He looked at his tall ship. It brought him a sense of tranquility. Always, his tall ship could bring him peace. No father to tell him to go to bed. No curious crewman around, no broken nose and ribs. No Captain Janeway who could unsettle him with her sad eyes.

He'd seen her that day in his father's office. Only he didn't know it was her. All he'd noticed was a young cadet who appeared to him like every other cadet daring to enter the office of Captain Paris and hoping for his approval.

So their paths did cross, like ships passing in the night. He'd known of a Kathryn Janeway, one who was on that expedition with his father when they were captured by the Cardassians. But further than that, she'd been a name mostly, though their parents were friends. He'd been away at school, at adventure camps, on other homeworlds to hone his survival skills, at the Academy, at Sandrines, at Caldik Prime, a latinum-monger in the Maquis. He considered those years. All that ever interested him was design and navigation. Those constants were drowned in all the misdemeanours of a misspent youth. He couldn't look back and declare that he'd achieved anything, not in the way of a Harry Kim, or other cadets who excelled beyond all expected parameters.

_I have wasted so much time..._

The realisation struck him like a bolt. He felt a burn behind his eyelids, a thickening in his throat as if he could cry any moment.

_I've spent half my life being mad at someone..._

He slumped forward, resting his head on his hands. There flashed an image of his father the day he was cashiered out of Starfleet. Angry, ashamed, disappointed. Always he'd imagined his father's shame was because the Paris name and reputation were tarnished, a father who braved inquisitive and condemning looks from others. His father's eyes bore into him now, telling him something else.

Sadness? For him, Tom Paris, wayward son? Pain? Where did that come from? Tom drew in his breath. Wasn't Owen Paris like most fathers who only wanted what was best for their children? As an eight year old, his father had constantly warned him not to bother him at the office, that there'd be time at home to discuss his assignments. He never thought that he could have been wrong too, that he disobeyed his father's request. He had been such an ungrateful bastard. If he, Tom, could hide all his feelings behind laughter, jokes, sarcasm, why couldn't his father hide his behind sternness and remoteness? Were they really cut from the same cloth, father and son?

Why couldn't he see his father's sadness? All the time he'd been in jail in New Zealand, he'd refused to see his parents, thinking his father hated him, thinking he'd never gain his father's admiration.

_Maybe he loved me after all..._

_No, he loved me...still loves me._

To ward off morbid thoughts, Tom sat down and picked up a foresail, one he had stitched with great skill. He'd spent the last few days just stitching sails - all thirty seven of them. Now he attached the fore topgallant sail on the foremast. Slowly, meticulously he began to attach the different sails, starting with the foremast, securing them with clewlines, tags, sheets and bowline bridles.

He lost track of time. Thirty seven sails and intricate rigging later, he sat back and studied his handiwork. He looked at the bowsprit image. For a second there flashed Janeway's face on the bowsprit. Tom grimaced. Did he have her in mind all the time he'd been on Voyager building his ship, to grace the bowsprit?

Sometimes he fell asleep at the counter with a part of the model ship still clutched in his hand. Other times he stood up to stretch his legs, exhausted, before he sat down again and continued his mission. There were times his fingers bled cutting through sheets, or pulling the rigging into place. One morning he'd woken up with a little carving of the ship's famous fleet admiral. That morning he thought the admiral spoke to him, saying, "Son, to obey orders is all perfection..."

He'd been so shaken by the words that he'd walked around all day regretting his disobedience. He paid for it, all right. Stood up like a man.

Tom caressed the ship, the light yellow wood offset by the darker oak all along its bow, the hull, the waterline. His fingers trembled.

"I finished something I started. Be happy for me, Dad."

Arrangements for the Captain's birthday party were in full swing. Naomi walked around barely able to hold her breath, let alone her tongue. Neelix knew nothing. Tom chuckled inwardly. Neelix couldn't keep a secret even if they didn't tell him about it! The women - B'Elanna, Seven of Nine, Samantha Wildman and Mariah Henley - seemed to have everything under control.

They'd approached him to design a holodeck programme as a setting for the celebration. It didn't take him long, because they'd graciously traded off duty hours with him to work on an appropriate setting, one he'd already thought about the day Samantha waylaid him on the way to the turbolifts.

During this time he'd been constantly aware of Janeway's eyes on him whenever he was on duty at the conn, although she no longer rose from her chair to stand behind him with her hand comfortably on his shoulder. Somehow he missed that. It had always been such a good feeling, knowing he was wanted, that his services were appreciated, that he was doing well.

Now, off duty, he sauntered towards the mess hall where it seemed everyone congregated for food, company, lover's tiffs...

He entered and made his way to the replicator. He was in the mood for tomato soup. He remembered that first day on board, he ordered plain tomato soup and everyone except Harry ignored him. Caldik Prime had reached their ears. Tom moved to stand in front of the replicator, but found his way blocked by none other than Dalby. Just behind Dalby lurked his cohorts - Gresham and Boldo. Tom sighed when he finally recognised the other attackers. Trouble...

"There's nothing here for you," Dalby sneered.

He was testing Tom. With so many witnesses, Dalby didn't dare try anything. Still, when Tom moved again, Dalby banged an elbow in his side. Tom felt the air rush from him.

Then he lost it. Within a split second he reacted. Before Dalby knew it, Tom pushed him against the bulkhead, his arm across his neck. He pulled Dalby forward and landed a heavy right-fisted punch in the crewman's gut. Dalby went down, but Tom pulled him up again, using a two-fisted punch against his jaw. There was a sound of the crewman's jawbone cracking.

Dalby slumped to the floor. When he moved to retaliate, Tom, blinded by fury, landed a heavy boot against Dalby's mid-section, sending him sprawling across the floor. He lunged to continue his assault on the hapless crewman.

"Tom!" B'Elanna's voice coming from a distance.

"Ensign Paris!"

But Tom ignored the cries of officers and crew. He'd noticed that Dalby's friends were not helping their fallen leader. Some cowards they were. And no one seemed to bother pulling him off the stricken Dalby. He pulled the crewman to his feet. Dalby's head lolled, his nose bled, he looked ready to cave in. Tom forced him to look him in they eye.

"Don't _ever_ mess with me again."

"Ensign Paris!"

Somewhere through the mists of his rage he heard the captain's voice. He dropped Dalby like a hot potato, resisting the urge to kick him again.

He was breathing heavily, and when he could focus, saw several crewmen around him. Dalby got up and stumbled about, but no one seemed to help him.

A pair of blue-grey eyes penned him. She was so small, so strong.

"In my ready room in ten minutes, Ensign!" she barked.

He nodded, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he moved away from the crowd. Janeway had already left the mess hall.

"Ensign Paris," he heard Neelix, "are you alright?"

"You should ask him," he replied, nodding in Dalby's direction. "His jaw is cracked."

Tom heard B'Elanna's voice.

"Damn you, Dalby. And for what? Why the jealousy?"

Tom already knew what Dalby would say, or at least, what Dalby was thinking.

Captain's pet. Personal reclamation project. Favoured darling. Old money. Starfleet aristocracy.

Any of those names were what he'd heard during those beatings.

Tom looked at the bedraggled crewman who had plunged into a chair. He was in pain, also embarrassed no doubt that his so-called friends didn't help him. Freakin' cowards that they were. The man needed medical attention.

Tom walked up to Dalby. Blood had already congealed at his nostrils. His lower lip had swollen. He was in obvious pain.

"Better get to sickbay. You're not winning any points sitting here."

Tom held out his hand. Dalby looked at it, then up at Tom. Very slowly he reached for Tom's hand. A huge feeling of relief flooded through Tom. Dalby wasn't likely to pester him again.

"Look, man, I don't know what came over me," Dalby muttered painfully as Tom pulled him up.

"Whatever it was, Dalby, I'm sure you'll think about it and eventually find the answer."

When Dalby left the mess hall, Tom paused for a few moments.

"What are you looking at?" he asked a crewman before he too left and headed for Captain Janeway's ready room.

He was in trouble. Again. How much lower could he sink this time?

"What the hell were you thinking?"

She was as mad as a spitting cobra. Her eyes flashed angrily, the words rushing from her mouth the second the ready room doors closed behind him. He'd hardly had time to collect himself. The attack was sudden, stealthy. A flash of Dalby and his friends ambushing him, unable to defend himself because it was so sudden.

That was what it felt like. Janeway had ambushed him. What little progress they'd made in restoring relations between them vanished into thin air. He bristled, clenched his fists at his sides, trying to remain calm.

What was calm when she so obviously wanted to murder him with her eyes, voice and stance? Hands-on-the-hips Janeway, take no prisoners Janeway, no favourites, no shit Janeway.

So he responded in the only way he knew how.

"Why, your personal reclamation project acting true to type? I went to the mess hall looking for a fight and found one?"

She was standing in front of her reception counter. He walked slowly up to her until he stopped. He was in her space. Her eyes grew wide, then settled into narrow slits, her breathing low, rushed. Twin spots coloured her cheeks.

"Step away from me, Paris," she ordered. "Or - "

"Or what, Captain? You'll throw me in the brig for a month? Demote me? Oh, wait, been there, done that, lost a pip and all."

He refused to back off, enjoying the way he unsettled her. She was fuming, hadn't asked what happened or why it happened.

Their eyes remained locked. If he leaned in any closer, he'd be able to see tiny specks on her pupils. If he leaned in any closer... His heart raced. He had trouble breathing.

So he backed off. Put a metre between them. There. Possible assimilation averted. A sudden vision of organ music accompanying the way they faced off: Bach's Toccata and Fugue - Daddy's favourite music after he spent days in a Cardassian hell. Dark, heavy organ sounds that made the floors vibrate vehemently. He'd always associated the Toccata with heaven's fury.

Now, a fury looked at him, clearly wanting to exact some kind of punishment or vengeance.

"Deep down," the fury started, "there is good in you, if forgotten for now. I expected better from you."

The fury's lips moved. He could hardly hear her, so soft her words were. Soft and kind. He was not used to kindness. It blindsided him. He never saw those words coming with all the gentleness in the world. They troubled him, made him quiver inside, made him want to wrap her in his arms and hug her. She looked so sad.

He coughed, trying to organise in his head the right words, the right things to say, to explain himself and be exonerated, or something.

Or something.

"I wanted to replicate tomato soup," he started, "when Dalby waylaid me with an elbow stab in my gut. I lost it. He had it coming. And no, Captain, I'm not going to apologise for defending myself."

The stance changed. Hands at her sides this time. This time she broke the one metre no-go zone between them. The air whooshed from his chest. She made him nervous.

"I didn't expect you to apologise, Ensign Paris."

_Yeah, he wasn't Tom anymore..._

"I am sorry, though, that I disappointed you," he said.

She stood back and he breathed easier, his face flushed. The toccata faded into the background until it was gone completely.

"Believe me. I understand. While you were in sickbay, the EMH told me of your troubles with certain crewmen. You wouldn't tell him who did it. Dalby and his gang will be dealt with. Some of your injuries were quite severe. There's...some residue from the time you were injured in the brig when Voyager was under attack. That, uh, couldn't be avoided."

Why didn't it surprise him that she knew about his headaches? He'd self-medicated, thinking he could keep it hidden.

"If it's any comfort, when I entered the mess hall, the crew were about to applaud you. It seems they'd been wanting the snot beaten out of Dalby. His friends didn't support him. Of course, I couldn't be seen to be giving you a pat on the back."

Slap on the wrist. Pat on the back. How things did change.

She smiled. He smiled.

"I don't think I'll be bothered again," he said emphatically.

"You're sure about that?"

"Dead certain, Captain."

She nodded, leaned forward and placed her hand in a comforting gesture on his shoulder. Tom swore inwardly. Damn, this was not easy. The touch burned him. Before he could embarrass himself, he clicked his heels when she said softly, "Dismissed, Tom."

If he could walk on air out of the ready room, he'd do so. Smiling to himself, he realised he had never gotten to eat his plain tomato soup, one of fourteen varieties.

END CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR.

"I've noticed an uncommon buzz among the crew," Kathryn Janeway said, leaning over so that her face was quite close to Chakotay's. "Have you also noticed it?"

"The crew is like this all the time. Maybe you give them the shivers when you pass them in the corridors, Captain."

Chakotay smiled as he spoke. Kathryn patted his hand on the console between them. "You know something."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Ensign Paris," she whispered as she glanced quickly at Tom's back, "has more free hours than anyone on board Voyager. Why is that, I wonder?"

"Maybe he won rations playing pool against every crewman on board."

"Except me."

Chakotay shook his head then settled himself in his chair. He glanced at her, his dimpled smile still not giving away anything. She wondered what he was thinking. She wasn't going to get anything out of him even if she tickled him mercilessly.

Something was up. She sensed it. Even Naomi beat a hasty retreat whenever she passed Voyager's youngest member in the corridors. They were traveling through benign space. Nothing of any interest, an uneventful time in which the crew were likely to suffer from cabin fever, with too much free time on their hands. It was time she roped in Neelix to devise some activities to break the crew's boredom. Bored? She amended that thought. They weren't bored. The opposite was true. She could swear they were all in on a secret pact. The buzz was all around her as she walked the corridors in the evening, or visited the sickbay or mess hall. Cabin fever or boredom it could not be, she decided.

In the last week there had been no incident with Tom Paris. Soon after Tom had been to see her, she'd called Dalby and his sidekicks to her ready room and dressed them down in no uncertain terms.

"I'm placing you on report," she bit out finally. "No rations and no holodeck privileges for a month."

"Captain," Dalby began, apparently not fazed by her punishment, "it will not happen again. It was very wrong of us. Mr Paris just..."

"What, Mr Dalby?"

"Did something I would have been too cowardly to do."

"And for that you ambushed him?"

"He's a better man than I am. I'm sorry."

Dalby certainly looked remorseful when he spoke. Heroism was not always about saving the distressed, she thought. It was about accepting the consequences of one's deeds too. Many were envious of that. Dalby simply took envy out in beating Tom.

She'd let them go. She wasn't going to let them know they got what they deserved, or that she was glad Tom beat the hell out of Dalby. That was certainly a very uncaptain-like attitude. But she was glad it was over for Tom. He'd defended himself in the face of an attack by three villains. When she'd spoken to Tom earlier, she sensed rather than him telling her, "What was I supposed to do? Lie down and let them beat the crap out of me? My life was in danger and I defended myself. They had it coming anyway."

Now Tom's rations grew like weeds in a garden. What on earth was he doing with them? Chakotay wasn't telling. He was behind everything. Whatever that 'everything' was.

So she sat back and relaxed in the command chair and studied Tom as he navigated Voyager through the Remargin Cluster. She'd negotiated Voyager's passage through it a month ago. They needed friends in the Delta Quadrant, and the Remargins were friendly races.

"Tom is a good man, Kathryn," Chakotay said, while looking straight ahead of him.

Damn Chakotay.

"I know."

Two days before Captain Janeway's birthday, Tom surveyed his handiwork in the holodeck. Most of the senior crew and those crew who were off duty would be accommodated here. There was a large dance hall where tables were placed all along the walls of the lower floor. A balcony right round the walls formed the upper section where patrons would watch the bawdy dances below. From the ceiling hung gas lit chandeliers. This provided the only light in the dance hall, giving the entire room a dark moody ambience.

Thirty crewmembers had relinquished their holodeck privileges to Tom so that he could have enough time to design the holoprogramme.

"Don't worry, Tom," some of them said, "it's a real pleasure for us that we could do this for the captain. She deserves a little joy in her life, and we just know she'll be astonished!"

Tom knew they would most likely be on duty during the festivities and would watch it on monitors. It was a sacrifice. He felt more a heel than ever before that they'd do it for him too. They treated him with the same respect now than before his demotion. Even Dalby's attitude towards him changed.

He'd placed some holodeck characters randomly throughout the hall downstairs and on the balcony. He felt a sudden rush of excitement. Some of the characters were famous in their day, others just strange hangers on.

"The Moulin Rouge?" Susan Nicoletti had exclaimed. "Tom, that's wonderful! Shall we meet some famous people?"

"Oh, yes, Captain Janeway will be there," he'd quipped. Susan burst out laughing.

"Come on! Give!"

But he'd been secretive about that too. Didn't want to give away too much. Now, Old Jean, the caretaker, was busily sweeping the already pristine floors. La Goulue and Valentin, the Boneless Wonder, were practicing their dance routines. Valentine was contorting his arms, legs and body, it seemed, around La Goulue. Then they'd stop, only for La Goulue to fly at Valentin for not contorting enough.

In the corner, away from the buzz of activity, he'd placed a famous artist of the time. He was very short. An illness during childhood caused his legs to stop growing. Yet those short legs supported a well formed upper body. He looked morose as he nursed his drink. A walking stick was hooked over the armrest of his chair. Tuvok had asked if he could bring in a pen and a sketch pad so that Toulouse-Lautrec could sketch some of the dancers and he'd be able to bring the sketchings out of the holodeck.

Susan Nicoletti had entered the holodeck, awed by her surroundings. She carried her oboe under her arm.

"You said we could come and rehearse."

Tom smiled as he walked towards her. "Of course, Susan. You're welcome. Stay as long as your free time allows."

"Thank you."

"Anything in particular you're going to play?"

"Do you have the piano?"

"Just managed to fit it in. It's an upright. Over there."

Susan looked in the direction Tom nodded, her eyes widening when she saw who was seated at the piano.

"Maestro Barenboim!"

"Thought you might like that. Go ahead. I won't disturb you."

"You're going overboard, Paris, here in Paris."

Tom swung round. Toulouse-Lautrec's voice sounded like the EMH when he spoke.

"You would too, if you saw her."

"Who?"

"Captain Janeway."

"A _woman_ is a captain?"

"Ah, yes."

"Captain Janeway... You think of her always."

"Now don't get ahead of yourself, Lautrec. Stick to what you do best."

"That is to observe sewer rats like you," came the instant retort. "They come here, sit on the balconies with the rest of the Paris rich, fall for the wrong women entirely and then drown themselves in cognac or the Seine. God, I do so hate immortalising sewer rats."

"You are a nobleman yourself, Lautrec. Don't forget that."

"I get what I want here," Lautrec retorted, looking at Jeanne Avril with narrowed eyes. Paris had no doubt what Lautrec meant.

"I should throw you out of the Moulin Rouge."

"Then who would draw La Goulue's gyrations so beautifully?"

Tom laughed. His dialogue parameters for Lautrec worked perfectly. He was eager to see Janeway versus Lautrec versus the Doctor.

"La Goulue is showing too little ankle, you sewer rat."

Again, Tom couldn't help chuckling, his spirits lifted. Susan played beautifully, accompanied by Daniel Barenboim. In a few minutes B'Elanna and her troop of females would barge in here to rehearse their routines for the Captain's surprise party.

At the end of Alpha shift, Kathryn Janeway made her way to holodeck two. Whatever was happening, she was dead certain Chakotay was behind it. A first officer no doubt assisted by the crew of her ship. She'd wanted quiet. She'd wanted to lie back with a good book perhaps, or just listening to good music. Even better, she'd wanted time to simply repose and reflect on just over four years of traveling in the Delta Quadrant. She had no time for anything except to get her ship and crew home.

Home was still so far away...

Earlier in the day, Chakotay entered her quarters with a dress draped across his arm.

"You have to wear this," he'd said without preamble.

"Really?"

"Don't be dense, Captain. I'm under orders."

"From whom, I wonder?"

"Just get into that dress." Chakotay had turned and left her quarters without saying another word.

She'd taken the delicate dress from him. It looked like late nineteenth century, she surmised. Would that be the period of the holodeck programme, if indeed it was an ancient setting?

The dress fitted her perfectly. A narrow bodice with skirt that billowed about her feet in soft frills. She pinned up her hair so that it more or less suited the period. She passed some crew on their way to their duty shifts. They greeted her and smiled before hurriedly scurrying past her. They didn't look surprised at what she was wearing. Once she turned to look at two crewmembers who looked like they were whispering behind her back. She just smiled and continued. What the heck.

Chakotay's request had been succinct. "Captain, please be in holodeck 2 at 1900. If you're not there, B'Elanna will transport you there."

"That sounds like a threat, Commander."

"Oh, yes, we'll resort to blackmail to get you there. Last time you were in the holodeck was - "

" - to play Velocity against Tom Paris. Fat lot of good that did me."

"You lost?"

"Let's just say we decided to call it quits."

"Now that's not Kathryn who doesn't know how to quit," Chakotay had retorted, smiling his familiar dimpled smile.

"And I'm not falling for those dimples, Commander."

"You do not like this face?"

"You are evil. I suspect there's a conspiracy afoot. Besides, you never forget birthdays. I would receive your birthday wishes in the early hours of the morning, while I'm still half asleep."

His sheepish grin was all she needed to convince her they were planning something for her. She so hated surprises. Her initial feeling of being letdown because not a single member of her senior crew had wished her happy birthday was bolstered by the fact that she now knew they were throwing her a party. .

She had no time really for celebrations. Not for herself, at least. She had no issues being happy for her crew whenever they celebrated anything like birthdays, engagements, even one wedding. But for herself? Last year they'd also tried to surprise her. Neelix had been behind the whole thing. The Talaxian had been unable to keep his mouth shut and she'd known early on they were planning a birthday surprise. Neelix was a goodhearted, ebullient mess hall sergeant, but he was no good at keeping things under wraps.

Which made her think Neelix had nothing at all to do with whatever was happening in the holodeck.

"Surprise, my foot. I'm going to do my best to be completely and insanely astonished tonight," she said to herself.

Down the corridor she was waylaid by Naomi Wildman who smiled broadly at her.

"Good evening and happy birthday, Captain Janeway. "

"Thank you. Good evening to you too, Naomi. Shouldn't you be in your quarters?"

"No, Captain. Mom gave me permission to view the stellar charts from the Astrometrics Lab."

"Who is on duty there in the Astrometrics Lab?"

"Megan Delaney."

"No one else?"

"Oh no, Captain. They're all in - "

Naomi clapped her little hands over her mouth. Her eyes widened like saucers. Kathryn wanted to laugh at how comical the girl looked with hand-covered mouth.

"Where are they, my little assistant?"

"I'm not supposed to say anything. Gotta go!"

Naomi rushed past her and dived around the next corner. Janeway looked back just in time to see a head bobbing quickly behind a bulkhead. She shook her head, smiling as she continued.

"Maybe I should just let myself go and enjoy the moment...or moments," she murmured softly as she approached the holodecks.

She keyed in the codes and waited for the holodeck doors to open.

Inside the Moulin Rouge there was a suspenseful atmosphere. Tom's heart raced. What if she didn't like it? The last three years she'd been just pleased about the surprises Neelix arranged. This was different. The Moulin Rouge was his new recreation. In truth, he'd had this idea for years, but then he'd been sowing wild oats when following through an idea had been the last thing on his mind.

He studied the crew and holograms around him. Tuvok stood with a tall flute in his hand, ready to start the moment the captain arrived. B'Elanna and her dance troupe of Seven, Mariah Henley, Ensign DuBarry and Moulin Rouge regulars were all set in their dresses full of ruffles and frills, each dress a different bright colour. They wore fishnet stockings. Seven of Nine had looked askance at her outfit and asked, "They wore this in 1890?" He'd replied they were special dresses for a special dance. B'Elanna was in red, a colour she insisted suited her best.

Susan, always so quiet and reserved, stood next to Daniel Barenboim. Lautrec had curved his lips in a dark sneer and remarked, "Too many women. I like it."

Chakotay stood next to him, holding two champagne glasses.

"What are you giving the captain?" he'd asked Chakotay.

"Just a small something. What about you?"

Tom spread his arm in a flourish. "This."

Chakotay smiled, his eyes not on Tom, but B'Elanna. Tom grinned. One morning he'd cornered the first officer in the mess hall before leaving for his duty shift. He'd seen Chakotay looking mighty close to Torres. She'd given him a rather awkward smile. When he and Chakotay left together, they paused at the turbolifts.

"You don't mind?" Chakotay asked.

"Now-now, Chak, I didn't think you're the type to ask."

"She was your girlfriend, Paris."

"It ended amicably. The best kind of ending, mind you. No, I'm happy for you."

"Shall I thank you?"

"Why not? Your life belongs to me, remember?"

They were greater friends than they had been at the beginning, when Chakotay had called him a good-for-nothing latinum-monger.

"This," Chakotay said, breaking into Tom's meandering thoughts, "is something else."

"Thanks. Had this idea for years. Just never got round to doing it."

"The perfect setting, in my opinion."

They were quiet again while the activity continued in the dance hall. Tom thought of the past few weeks when he and the captain had had such toxic altercations. Altercations which ended in precarious truces. Why was it continuing? Why were they arguing every time they were alone somewhere? He was puzzled by what was happening. He'd transgressed, he'd been punished, demoted, thrown in the brig. He'd taken his punishment like a man. He'd been hounded by crew who beat him senseless just for the fun of it. He'd told her he'd accepted her decisions, that they were in accordance with Federation rules.

He never consciously tried to get in her good books, or restore the status quo. So why could they not be like they were before? Like drinking tea in her ready room, discussing books, old films, history, wine, the twentieth century of which he was so fond.

It was her eyes. They still haunted him, eyes that got him out of bed long before he was supposed to, eyes that wouldn't let him sleep. Every time he thought that some accord between them could be achieved, her eyes unsettled him and undid the always creeping new resolve he'd craved.

If he could get past that.

He had to admit he was feeling damned nervous. He hoped no one noticed his hands shaking or his heart racing like mad. Everything tonight, his peace of mind, his place in Janeway's orbit depended on how she would react to what he had to offer.

The atmosphere was sociable. The crew wore the fashions of late nineteenth century Paris. They'd moaned but played along good-naturedly. B'Elanna had brooked no resistance from Seven of Nine or her team about wearing the flouncy can-can dresses.

He'd selected Offenbach's Gaîté Parisienne Ballet Suite, music he considered fitting for the occasion. Some of the Moulin Rouge hologram regulars he'd recreated were already dancing. For once La Goulue's mood was pleasant as she smiled her way through Valentin's gyrations. Toulouse-Lautrec was busy sketching away, the ubiquitous wine-filled glass never far from his hand. He'd had a mind to recreate Emile Zola as company and let them bounce retorts off each other. He scuttled the idea. Too many holograms. Susan was standing next to Daniel Barenboim waiting for her cue.

He gave an audible sigh. Chakotay nudged him.

"How are you doing?"

"If you must know, I'm pretty nervous."

"Hey, no one will die from nervousness."

"Oh, I know. It's just...she might not like it."

"She likes everything you do, Paris." Chakotay paused, then, "Almost everything."

This time Paris elbowed Chakotay. "For that I ought to let La Goulue over there latch on to you for the entire evening!"

"I'd like to see her and B'Elanna go head to head."

"B'Elanna will wrapped her head around her - "

"Ouch!"

Tom laughed, the mood lightened. "Well, it's almost time."

"Is your little mole ready?"

Just as Tom was about to answer, his commbadge beeped.

"Naomi Wildman to Mr Paris!"

"Paris here, Naomi. Have you spotted her?"

"Yes! The Captain just passed me. She's near the holodeck doors!"

"What, so close?"

"I think she knows something, Mr Paris! There, she's right by the doors!"

"Thank you, sweet Naomi. Enjoy the view from Astrometrics. Paris out."

"She's coming!" Chakotay shouted.

Everyone scurried to attention, holding up their champagne flutes filled with holographic wine. The doors opened.

The doors to holodeck two slid open and Kathryn stepped inside. Instantly, orchestral music played. There was a noise that rose up. High pitched voices, excitement that pulsated through the room. She recognised the music as the overture to Offenbach's Gaite Parisienne. All eyes were on her. Of its own volition, her hand came up to cover her mouth. Then the guests broke spontaneously in raucous unison.

"Happy birthday to you!"

They were all in period costume. She was dazed. She blinked hard several times. Her fingers dug painfully into the palms of her hand. Was she about to faint? It appeared as if a haze settled over the heads of the people. Exactly like a smoke-filled room, lit by...gaslight. Smiling faces swelled towards her then receded. Was she in a dream? They leaned forward, touching her shoulder, her arms. Soft voices wished her happy birthday again, louder voices exclaimed, "Give the lady room! She's about to expire on her birthday!" Glasses were raised. The fog lifted. The buzz in her ears receded.

The Moulin Rouge.

Complete with the music she'd always associated with it. Crew and holograms mixing. If she had a thousand scenarios in mind, she couldn't have imagined this one.

She saw Tom Paris raising his glass, smiling roguishly. Chakotay appeared and propped a glass in her hand.

"Chakotay?"

"Happy birthday, Kathryn, from all of us," he said softly before kissing her on the cheek.

A lump formed in her throat, leaving her speechless. If she didn't control herself, she would burst into tears. This was unexpected, unreal. Faces that had appeared hazy now came into focus. Lieutenant Torres, Seven of Nine, Mariah and Ensign DuBarry were dressed like can-can dancers. Tuvok looked...Tuvok, upright and prissy in top hat and gentleman's overcoat. Susan Nicoletti was tucked away in a corner, next to a gentleman at the piano. All of them looked so joyful.

She saw two dancers in the middle of the floor. Undoubtedly the Moulin Rouge's most famous dancers, La Goulue and Valentin who left his partner and sauntered to her. His lithe body moved like a snake. The Boneless Wonder, they called him.

He extended a very long arm and hand in a grand flourish and declared, "I shall dance with you next, my lady." Then he wanted to take hold of her. She heard the crew laugh. Tom Paris quickly intervened, pushing Valentin away.

"Not a chance, you boneless eel!" he said, smiling as he led her to a table. The music continued playing. All she needed to see now was the most famous patron of the Moulin Rouge. She looked down her row of tables and saw him sitting alone, his cane perched over the arm of his chair. He tipped his hat when he saw her.

"Toulouse-Lautrec."

"Yes, ma'am," Tom replied.

"And this is all your work?"

"Guilty."

"Well, I must say I am really more than surprised."

"Thank you, Captain," he said, their eyes locked for several heady moments.

Chakotay might have been the organiser, or B'Elanna and her troupe of dancers, but Tom Paris, lately demoted to ensign, had recreated the Moulin Rouge in Paris with breathtaking accuracy.

She knew she would thank him later. Right now, Chakotay began to address the guests.

"We wanted to do something special for the captain. So far it seems we have succeeded. Captain Janeway is still too stunned to speak! Let us toast the master and commander of intrepid Voyager..."

It went by in a whirl. They toasted, drank to her health and good fortune. She thought she would drown in goodness!

Chakotay introduced the next act.

She could only look on in wonder as they cleared the dance floor and B'Elanna and her troupe stepped up. The famous can-can music started. Kathryn laughed out loud when the ladies picked up their ruffles and fluffed them in the faces of the male patrons. It was a lively act, full of energy and enthusiasm. When the dance ended her eyes welled with tears as Ensign DuBarry and Mariah smiled broadly at her.

B'Elanna stepped forward and hugged her.

"Captain Janeway, that was our gift for you today. Happy birthday!"

"Thank you!"

Soon the upright piano was pushed to the middle of the floor. Susan Nicoletti was ready to play her oboe.

"A short recital, Captain. Mr Paris kindly recreated Daniel Barenboim, famous pianist of the twentieth century to accompany me."

Kathryn nodded, smiling dazedly.

Susan played the famous barcarolle so exquisitely that Kathryn felt like weeping again.

"Come here, Susan," Kathryn requested and when Susan complied, Kathryn hugged her fiercely. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you so much..."

Chakotay stepped forward and presented her with a pocket watch and chain.

She stared wide-eyed at him. Tears were never far from falling.

"Captain," he started, "I present you with this pocket watch. It is a replica of the watch that belonged to a nineteenth century sea captain. His ship was hit by a typhoon, thought lost forever until he sailed his torn and tattered vessel into London Harbour eight months later."

The symbolism was not lost on her. A tear rolled down her cheek. Her crew had so much faith in her. Her mission had always been to bring Voyager home, no matter what.

"Thank you, Chakotay."

Behind her Tom Paris nodded to the next person to present something. A young crewmember stepped forward. He looked so shy, Kathryn wanted to get up and touch his shoulder to comfort him. He held a book in his hand which he opened slowly at the bookmarked page.

"Captain, I wish to read a poem..."

Gerron read Walt Whitman's "O Captain, my captain!" in such a well modulated tone that she wondered how long it had taken him to practice. It was a stirring rendition that tugged at her heart strings. Again, she was struck by the symbolism of a captain who did everything humanly possible to sail his ship into harbour. The guests applauded enthusiastically while Gerron smiled shyly as he rejoined his group of friends.

Yes, she thought, she'd give her life to bring Voyager home.

Kathryn turned to look at Tom. He stood just behind her looking strangely nervous. He gestured to Tuvok who stepped forward to present her with a little scroll.

"Best wishes, Captain. I commissioned Toulouse-Lautrec to do this for you. You may take it out of the holodeck since I have replicated both sketch pen and paper."

Kathryn opened the scroll to see her face captured in pure awe as she surveyed her surroundings minutes after she entered the holodeck. It was stunning. Simple lines, quick swatches across the paper, her face as she'd likely looked when she asked Tom Paris, "Is this your work?"

"Thank you, Tuvok!"

"I think you should thank Lautrec, Captain. May I say, he captured you perfectly."

She stole a glance at Toulouse-Lautrec who raised his glass in acknowledgement. All she could do was just nod. Words were gone. They were simply impressions, reactions given in nods of the head, mouthing thanks, smiling or hugging as crewmembers stepped forward to wish her a happy birthday. A blur of movement, flaring dresses, dancing, drinking of holographic wine, joining holograms in boisterous fun. Seven of Nine dancing with the Boneless Wonder - a wonder in itself. Gerron, filled with newly formed boldness claiming one of the holograms for a dance. All the time the music of Offenbach filled the room.

And her tears. They were never far from her. She didn't care that her crew witnessed them. They were proud tears.

"And now, Captain Janeway will give a speech," Chakotay announced to the animated guests. They all echoed Chakotay, demanding she say something.

She rose to her feet, glanced about the room, tried to make eye contact with every one of her crew. She knew many were not able to attend, though she was assured they were watching all the proceedings.

"My loyal crew, I thank you for this magnificent surprise. It has, I can tell you, exceeded all my expectations. Before I came to the Moulin Rouge, I told myself "Well, another year, another surprise. I will do my best to be completely and insanely astonished tonight. I didn't have to try! From the moment I stepped inside, I was completely blown away. Thank you all for your lovely gifts, everyone who pitched in and offered their rations so this wondrous recreation of the Moulin Rouge could be made possible. I thank especially Ensign Paris who I know is the creator of this programme."

She turned and glanced at Tom who stood just a little distance behind her and gave him a nod. He didn't smile. He looked tense.

"Thank you, Tom," she added softly.

They continued the festivities for about thirty minutes. Then the music stopped abruptly.

"Okay, ladies and gentlemen," Chakotay began. "This is the end. When you have collected sufficient rations you can enjoy this holoprogramme at a later stage. We leave Captain Janeway to savour the last few moments here. Scram, everyone!"

They began leaving one by one, still laughing, singing and dancing animatedly.

"Not you, Paris," Chakotay ordered when everyone had left and he saw Tom moving as well.

Kathryn looked sharply at Chakotay and frowned.

"This is your time alone with Tom, Kathryn. Make it good, okay?" he said.

He kissed her cheek briefly before he too left. She turned to look at Tom, who looked like he was afraid to smile.

"Tom?"

END CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

They were alone, if he didn't count the holograms. All evening he'd watched her, her reactions to the crew's gifts, the poetry readings, the recitals. She had been blown away as she herself said, the "surprise" magnificent. She was loved by her crew, that was for certain. She had been overcome and sometimes he saw tears in her eyes. All evening he'd been on tenterhooks, wondering how she would react to something he'd created. He didn't dance with her like many of the crew had done, or join her as she conversed with small groups. Now that they were alone, he felt the pent up air expel from his chest.

Kathryn Janeway took his breath away. He'd given Chakotay specifications for a dress worn near the end of the nineteenth century. It was a beautiful dress, of soft tulles and satins. It fitted her perfectly. She'd pinned up her hair as well. It gave her an air of hauteur, an unconscious bearing that elevated her to the balcony of the Moulin Rouge, where the upper classes sat and watched the dancing and ribaldry from above.

She looked exquisite and delicate and aloof and vulnerable. This time she was not the fury he'd confronted in her ready room, the angry captain who had dressed him down. This time her eyes were not the eyes of his father - narrowed, disappointed, furious. Those times that he'd caught her looking at him, her eyes were different - soft and forgiving maybe. Two months ago he would have sworn she would never ever look at him again in the way she always had - with humour, recognition, friendship. Who knew, maybe they could have their old camaraderie back...

She'd taken him from that prison in New Zealand and offered him a lifeline. He'd taken it with both hands, albeit with his old impudence because he didn't want her to see how grateful he'd been that day.

_"I'm the best pilot you could have!"_

Now, years later, he damned his own outrage that he wouldn't pilot Voyager into the Badlands. She could have left him to rot in New Zealand. He felt a prick of tears and blinked hard.

She saved his life.

What did he do ? Screw up every chance that they could be friends again. He had so few to begin with. On Voyager, friendships were forged on the hard battlegrounds of alien worlds, their backs against the walls. Chakotay, B'Elanna, Harry, even Susan who was beginning to speak to him more often and with such grace and amicability - they were his friends. Most of all, he treasured the friendship of the captain. It meant the world to him.

Especially the captain. To gain her trust, he worked. He worked hard to forge something close to the best friendship one could have. It was that strange realm between acknowledging her leadership and command at all times, gaining her respect and trust for it, and the camaraderie, the fun, the ability to relax in each other's company because of it.

So why did it hurt so damned much?

That day in her ready room, it was disappointing her that sucked the grit out of him. It wasn't so much the removal of his rank pin, or sentencing him to solitary confinement or being mad that she almost killed him. It wasn't so much accepting that he disobeyed orders and had to take the punishment for them. He was man enough to take the punishment. He knew about jail time. He'd been in jail when she bartered for his freedom, time he'd spent surviving the challenges of prison life. It wasn't so much that he wasn't piloting Voyager for the period he spent in the brig.

Those were the things that happened to him that would determine whether he emerged a changed being, a better being.

No, it was finally seeing through the anger in her eyes the real emotion. He'd sat long enough in solitary confinement to reflect on that look. The realisation rocked him hard. He'd seen the sadness and the knowledge that he'd disappointed her. He'd let her down; he'd tried to be the man who challenged the authority of the master and commander of her ship before the entire crew of Voyager.

That was what sucked the grit out of him. Subsequently he reacted in the only manner he knew to deal with someone else's disappointment: sarcasm, bravado, baring the teeth and ready to fight. He was good at hiding his true feelings and very good with the tools he used to hide them.

Now, Captain Kathryn Janeway looked at him with her heart in her eyes. He was running scared in a big way.

"Captain, I - uh, haven't given you your gift..." he began, feeling completely idiotic.

"But this..." she said, waving her hand to encompass the room, "was your gift, Tom. How can I thank you enough?"

"Please, don't thank me, Captain. I was commissioned by the crew to do something special - "

"Something spectacular."

He had to smile. Damn, it was so difficult to smile!

"Okay, spectacular."

"The lady is waiting for your next move, Paris. Get on with it, you dolt."

Kathryn chuckled when Toulouse-Lautrec ambled up to them and tapped Tom on the shoulder with his walking stick. Tom's mild irritation had only one reaction.

"Computer, delete all holograms."

In a flash they were completely alone. The Moulin Rouge looked deserted.

Kathryn wanted to laugh at Lautrec's surprised look when Tom gave the command. She gazed at Tom. His eyes were clear with a hint of humour in them. A hint only, she thought. Most of the time he had the restlessness of a nervous cat. She took a step closer to him and placed her hand on his chest. Tom flinched. She drew her hand away instantly.

"Is something the matter, Tom?"

He smiled again. It was easier to call him by his name now that they were alone. He _was_ always Tom to her, since that very first time she'd seen him barge into his father's office when he was a child. He seemed relaxed now.

"No," he answered. "As I said, I have your gift. There's just something I must do."

She watched as he changed the lighting in the holodeck to something brighter than the muted light given off by gaslight. They were standing at her table which was filled with the gifts the crew had given her. On a second thought, he guided her to another table.

"Captain, remember I told you I haven't been idle in my quarters?"

"Clearly. You won a round of Velocity."

"Well, this is it. Watch the table, please."

She watched. Tom used a site to site transporter which she realised only now had been hidden in his gentleman's coat pocket all evening. He keyed in some codes.

"Damn, I hope this works," he muttered.

As if it swelled out of thin air, a magnificent tall ship appeared on the table. Kathryn gasped audibly. On the aft section she saw the name: VICTORY.

Sails stitched with the finest detail, rigging, the three masts, the bowsprit, the hull of dark oak and yellow wood. Four guns lined on the upper deck. On the poop deck stood a figure in the regimentals of fleet admiral and next to him, his ship's captain. Everywhere there was a bustle of movement of midshipmen, seamen, officers, clambering up the rigging, or tying something. One anchor was down, the other drawn. Even through the portholes she could see the inside furnishings, the rows of cannon on every deck below.

She didn't have to count the number of cannon. There were one hundred and four of them. It was a work of art, a project that must have taken years to complete, therefore impossible to separate from its creator.

Unmistakably the _HMS Victory_, flagship of the British fleet at the Battle of Trafalgar, under the command of Admiral Lord Nelson, British naval hero.

"Tom," she sobbed, "what have you done?"

She felt his hand on her shoulder.

"My gift, Captain. Not something I wanted the others to see."

She could understand that very well.

"All hand-made."

"Well, most of the pieces were - "

"I know, but the details and building was done by you." There was a pause. "Tom..."

"What?"

She was overcome with emotion. She knew the history of the _Victory._ The vessel had been damaged, overhauled, new sails fitted, new rigging, most of all, in the twenty first century its hull had begun to displace. While it rested in a dry dock, the weight of the ship caused the hull to break under the strain. Over the centuries, major rehabilitation had been done on the _Victory_ to keep her docked and in good condition.

Like she had done with Tom. Major rehabilitation. A reclamation project. How cold and calculating that sounded when she was dealing with a person with flaws that were all too human. What had Tom been to her all these years? Someone or something she could change into her own perception of what was good and perfect? So that she could one day say that she had a hand in making him the good human he had become? What did that make her? One who could boast of her own achievements in the overhauling of Tom Paris?

Tom was waiting for her response.

"I cannot accept this utterly exquisite gift, Tom."

"And why not, Captain? It was my decision to present it to you. Accept it, please."

"You built this, Tom. My guess is you must have started this project a long time ago - "

"First year at the Academy - "

"That long?"

"Lost my way in between."

She thought about those words. She understood their meaning.

"I understand. This was a labour of love. She's beautiful." She looked into his eyes. "I know there are individuals - Chakotay and B'Elanna come to mind - who have had to destroy things they created, or to part with them. Those actions came with pain of loss, just as if one lost a loved one. Beauty, Tom, cannot be destroyed or parted with, especially if it was your own creation or recreation, if you like. This...this is your brain child. And yes, just like building the Delta Flyer or trying to rescue an ailing world, it is yours. And to have that taken away, must tear you apart."

"I admit I do feel bereft. It was part of me for a very long time," Tom admitted.

"Then I thank you from my heart to accept this beautiful ship, Tom. Oh, is that Horatio Nelson standing on the poop deck?"

"Indeed, and next to him Captain Thomas Hardy."

"You've really outdone yourself."

"I'm glad you like it, Captain."

"Very much. And Tom?"

"What is it?"

"What...happened that time. I'm sorry you were hurt."

Tom's eyes closed. He opened them moments later. Then he ordered music. A waltz.

"Shall we dance, Captain?"

She hesitated only a fraction, then stepped into his waiting arms. He held her close. And suddenly, unbidden her heart skipped a beat, for a searing warmth filled her. It seemed like their hearts beat together, synchronised like their dance steps were. They moved as one. She inhaled him and it overpowered her, made her dizzy.

At last the fight left her. She rested her head gently against his chest and closed her eyes, feeling a great peace descend on her.

Now she knew why she had always been so hard on him.

*  
>The moment Kathryn Janeway floated into his arms, Tom knew it was wrong. A thrilling wrong but one nonetheless. He grit his teeth, tried to prevent his heart from beating at warp speed. Wrong. What the hell was wrong with wrong?<p>

Nothing. Everything. She mesmerised him. She was a witch and a fury and a muse and...everything! Her hair was swept up and pinned to frame her face like in an ancient portrait miniature. It smelled of wine or fruit - apples, perhaps. If it was wine, then surely he must be drunk. Yes, that was it. And what perfume wafted from her that joined with wine and apples and intensified his inebriated state?

They moved to the gentle cadence and rhythm of the Offenbach waltz. Each turn and sashay caused a wave of pleasure that seared his insides. A sudden impulse, too daring to contemplate at first, too forbidden to follow through, brought his face down to bury in her hair.

Now he knew what it meant to drown, to be engulfed in swirling waves that halted his breathing, reduced his will to fight and come up for air. He didn't want to come up for air. The sensation of drowning was so pleasurable, any thought that he was doing something wrong or breaching certain protocols was shunted to the furthest recesses of his conscience.

Kathryn Janeway felt soft and _home_ in his arms.

He knew now why he'd spent the last two months finishing the _HMS Victory_, why his fingers sometimes bled as he fixed the fine riggings, stitched the tiny sails, glued and stayed a hundred different parts into place, why Lady Emma Hamilton's face on the bowsprit looked like Kathryn Janeway. He knew why he never slept nights and chose to work through them to finish something he started. He knew why he erred, why he kept on screwing up. The years before Janeway, his father's stern face and disappointed eyes haunted him. From the moment she stood over him at the New Zealand Penal Colony, it was Janeway's eyes, her bearing, her stance, her kindness, the camaraderie that haunted him.

Until now.

All the agony, all the enmity that remained between them from the moment the Monean Ocean World beckoned, all the angry confrontations, all the times he avoided social contact with her, the searing embarrassment of being demoted while underneath he showed his courage by accepting what had always been law, all of it told him one thing, and one thing only: this had never been about restoring friendship.

He gave a little sob, enough that Kathryn Janeway lifted her face to him.

When their eyes connected, there was mirrored the very realisation that had struck him. They had stopped moving, stood still in the middle of the dance floor. She looked momentarily perplexed by the discovery, a sheen of tears in her eyes enhancing her exquisite beauty.

They were not here to rekindle a beautiful friendship.

His throat became thick with emotion as he lowered his head and murmured hoarsely ...

"Kathryn..."

THE END


End file.
